Peonies
by storybycorey
Summary: Mother's Day fic: It had been her last chance. Her last chance to make this day in May actually mean something. Something besides heartache. Timeline: couple months POST Per Manum, but BEFORE Mulder's abduction- hey, if CC isn't going to give us an accurate timeline, I'm gonna play fast and loose with the one we've got
Subconsciously, she's been avoiding May. Has waited until the last possible minute to turn the calendar page. Hasn't even written anything down in its empty boxes, choosing instead to schedule the upcoming month through post-it notes, spilling and dripping off the edge of April's weary photo.

Two days in though, and she can no longer avoid it.

Sadly, she's already missed May Day.

April showers give way to May flowers, and the gay peonies in the new calendar photo mock her when she finally allows them to shine. Look how lovely we are, they seem to say. Look how lovely the month of May is.

And then, there it is, the second Sunday, swollen and throbbing right there on the white of the page. No longer able to be avoided. She's proud of herself when she's able to hold in the tears.

At least most of them.

….

She hasn't mentioned it. Of course she hasn't. She barely mentions things she's happy about. She certainly doesn't mention those she's sad about.

But he can always tell. When she is sad. He can feel it in the vibration of her steps echoing down the hallway, just the faintest bit more downtrodden. He can see it in the sky blue of her eyes, shadowed just slightly by clouds.

He can always tell.

And the thing is, he's sad, too. Because he lost something as well.

….

She is happy her mother is out of town on the actual day. Reliving an impossibility is hard enough alone. Celebrating it with others would be torture.

It had been her last chance. Her last chance to make this day in May actually mean something. Something besides heartache.

She'd failed.

She isn't expecting his knock at her door. She hasn't thought beyond her own solitary grief just yet. Whoever coined the phrase 'misery loves company' was an asshole.

But SHE knows that HE knows. She isn't good at hiding her pain. Not from him.

When she opens the door and sees the pink blossoms, layers of petals tripping over themselves in order to be 'the fullest!', 'the lushest!', 'the most beautiful!', she has to turn away. They're the same damn peonies from her calendar.

He sets the flowers on her kitchen table, and the unspoken words that go along with them lie there as well. She wouldn't be surprised if he'd taken out a decorative "Happy Mother's Day" pick from the dirt, placed there innocuously by some bored florist, because who in their right mind wouldn't be happy on this glorious day?

"I…ummm…," he's embarrassed. He'd known flowers weren't the right way to handle this, but really, what would have been?

"I know," she murmurs.

Sitting on the couch beside him, she immediately regrets not turning on some music, the television, anything not to be consumed by this awkward silence. The silence that reminds them with each heavy heartbeat that this could have been a day to celebrate. Together.

And so they sit. It's suffocating, having him here, the knowledge of WHY he's here hanging over them like an anvil. Just having him here brings emotions to her surface, brings a flood of tears to swell in her throat. Without a word being said. He's sort of magic in that way. She can't decide whether she loves him or hates him for it.

"Scully, I just…," he states quietly, but she can't right now. She can't hear his apologetic tone, his pity. She especially can't hear his own sadness.

Before he continues, she cuts him off with another "I know." But her words crack open in the middle and spill down onto the couch between them. She can't stop the tears from sliding down her cheeks.

He reaches for her hand and tugs her closer, pulls her until he can draw her head to rest against his shoulder. She didn't want this today; she didn't want to think about it or dwell on it or share it. She didn't want him to rescue her.

But his warm shoulder and his encompassing arm and his lips in her hair make it hard not to give in. In fact, they make it easy to try and forget. She finds herself leaning into him, pressing her temple further against his lips, following him. And as unnoticeably as day slides into night, his lips are there, at her cheek, along her jaw, then softly against her mouth.

Slow, unhurried, so, so soft—his palm cradles her neck as their lips explore. For just a moment, the ache of the day subsides, and all they're left with is each other. Which is really how it always ends up anyway, isn't it?

He wonders whether this is smart, but her sweet little hums are so encouraging. The arch of her neck into his hand is so inviting. They've done enough these past few years to earn some happiness, haven't they?

He shifts so he can pull her closer, and she surprises him by sliding into his lap, straddling him, gripping his jaw between her fists and murmuring against his mouth, "I just want to feel happy, Mulder. Help me feel happy...," and god, he wants her to feel happy, too.

He'd do anything to make her feel happy. Especially this.

She is perfect. He knew she would be. He knew her kisses would bring him to his knees, he knew her breasts would be breath-taking held in his hands , he knew her hips would arch at an angle that precisely met his tongue. He knew he'd fit inside her so exquisitely, it would make him weep.

And she knew, just as surely, that he would make her happy. That's why she asked him. He makes her so happy, she's intoxicated with it. She sighs and she moans with the happiness of his body heaving above her. Finally. After so many years. After everything.

He makes her so happy, she's forgotten this whole damn month, much less the day.

….

When he's in the shower, she looks across the room. Somehow the place that felt so suffocating this morning now feels lighter, hopeful. The flowerpot of pink peonies are still holding competition over at her table. She drifts over, giving them another perusal, and awards a pretty one in the front the coveted 'most beautiful'. They really are lovely flowers, she thinks.

She stands before the calendar and runs her fingers across those dreaded letters: M…A…Y. Perhaps the month deserves another chance.

The water shuts off in the bathroom. She ducks her head and smiles.

Mentally, she makes a note to tear out and save the calendar photo, once they've moved into June.

She thinks it would look nice framed in her bedroom.

She thinks it would make her happy.


End file.
